When Boys Cry
by theivydaggers
Summary: John Watson: Doctor, Soldier, Veteran, Blogger, Detective, Fighter and so, so very cold again. But hey, he's a good actor! Who on earth would guess he was broken? Very softly hinting Johnlock, take what you will from it.


**This is my first attempt at using lyrics to start fanfics. I just heard these lyrics the other day and couldn't help seeing it as John and Sherlock. Hopefully I'll continue this one. **

**This is Johnlock, but slow progression. Stick around.**

_**How can you just leave me standing?**_

_**Alone in a world that's so cold **_

_**Maybe I'm just too demanding**_

_**Maybe I'm just like my father too bold.**_

_**-Prince, When Doves Cry**_

John Watson was a good actor. Not many people knew this of course. It's not really something you bring up in the middle of a conversation with your middle-aged co-workers who find jokes about bones 'humerus' (Yes, they actually laughed at that.).

He actually did drama in high school. Course he wasn't the best at it, but he enjoyed it immensely. Always got good grades in it and the teacher he had been very nice, and excellent at what she did. She complimented him on his acting abilities and said that if he wanted, he could probably continue doing drama in university.

He didn't obviously. But the fact remains. To this day, John Watson is still a very good actor.

Which is why of course, no one would expect what he was going to do.

He hid behind a happy façade that let everyone believe he was absolutely fine. People thought he was still a bit sad of course. Who wouldn't be after their best friend died? But if you asked Greg, or Molly, or Mrs Hudson, or his work buddy Sarah or anyone really, they would tell you John Watson was happy man, dealing with a rough patch, but he was doing ok.

No, no one expected that today would be the day that John Watson would kill himself.

No one.

Except one.

* * *

><p>The day John had decided he wanted to die wasn't special. It was a normal, lazy Saturday afternoon. He called the clinic the day before and asked if he could have the day off cause he felt a little under the weather, and didn't want to risk his patients' health. They let him, sent him their sympathies and went on with their day.<p>

He had a long shower, taking time to relish the feel of it. In John's mind, apart from tea, there was nothing quite like a long shower with good water pressure and a nice, constant heat.

He dressed in his favourite clothes of the moment. The thick, cream jumper over a black button-up with a pair of worn jeans and his comfy loafers. He felt numb, but good. A small smile played on his face the whole morning.

He boiled the kettle, placing a mug on the counter. As he waited for the hiss of the boiling water, he loaded up his favourite episode of _Doctor Who _on his laptop (The Doctor, The Widow and The Wardrobe if you were wondering). The kettle hissed, he made his tea, he watched his Doctor Who. It was good.

He turned off his laptop and left to get some food. Fish and chips to be specific (oh how British of him.) He coated the fish with tartare sauce like he always did, saturated the chips in vinegar and enjoyed his last meal, savouring the sharp and soft tastes.

He finished his meal, chucked out the wrapping, tipped the shop £50 (the look on their faces was priceless.) and walked back home, humming 'Walking on Sunshine' under his breath.

It was a good day to die.

* * *

><p>He stared at John carefully on the screen his brother had handed him, watching with a crinkle between his brows. His brother insisted he was fine, to stop looking at a screen and help, but he knew something was wrong.<p>

Something was horribly, horribly wrong.

John was doing everything he loved. Savouring it, being uncharacteristically kind and cheerful. Walking with purpose.

But not a good purpose. He walked like he knew something you didn't. A secret that gave him a kind of smug ease. Something that made him wants to savour things. What is something that makes you at ease when you're friend dies and leaves you with lie upon lie? He was almost acting like today he would see Sherlock aga…

Oh.

Oh god no.

* * *

><p>John was still humming to himself when he got to the flat. Change of song of course, but still in an overly cheery voice.<p>

"Take if you will a picture…" He pulled out a note pad a pen.

"Of you and I engaged in a kiss." He placed them on the table.

"The sweat of your body covers me…" He went into his room and slid to his knees, reaching under the bed and making a small affirmative sound when he found the rope.

"Can you my darling…can you picture this?" He moved back to the kitchen, placed the rope on the table to.

"Dream if you can a courtyard…something about flowers in bloom. Something something something, la da da da da, la da dee da dee."

Whistling the rest of the song softly, he started writing on the notepad. Soft, elegant writing. So unlike his normal messy Doctor scrawl.

Once satisfied, he put the notepad down and started tying a noose. Good thing about nooses were that they were so simple. It would take roughly three or four minutes to suffocate. Of course he could still live through a low drop if someone could save him, but the front door was locked and the windows closed. It would take someone very persistent to try and get him. If he could be bothered he'd hang himself off an extremely long fall, jump, and decapitate himself.

But that's just messy.

His doctor brain was activated when he started thinking.

_Risks of failed attempt: _Brain damage from lack of oxygen, Often, failure to actually break your own neck may only yield strangulation and you can be saved, but damaged. Also, permanent rope burns or implement scarring can occur, as well as paralysis in certain cases.

He laughed, looping the rope over a beam in the roof. He looked at his note one last time, and smiled slowly, his eyes watering slightly for the first time that day. He closed his eyes, letting a tear run down his cheek.

No. Now was not the time to feel sad. This was good. This was a good thing. Military John activate. Emotions mean weakness.

_God I sound like Sherlock._

He smiled bitterly, reciting his note one last time.

"The bricks were red…" He pushed a chair under the noose.

"His scarf was blue…" He stood on the chair, the noose circle that would end him held tightly in his slightly shaking hands.

"But now he is dead…" He was crying now. Shit. Shit crying won't help. Come on John Watson. He slipped his rope necklace around his neck.

"So I think I'll die too."

He was ready.

This was it.

Why the fuck wasn't he moving off the chair?

Jesus Christ.

Ready

No.

Yes.

Maybe.

Yes.

Ye…

_**BANG BANG BANG **_"JOHN! JOHN FOR THE LOVE OF GOD YOU MAKE ONE STEP AND I WILL PUT A BULLET THROUGH MY OWN HEAD!"

That.

No.

That can't be.

John turned his head slowly, his eyes locking on the windows of 221B. His body shrivelled up in shock. This…this can't be real. But he's still screaming. And banging. What the hell?

Hanging dangerously off the frame of the window, Sherlock Holmes was punching the glass with all his might. It shuddered, and strained. He kept screaming, his face panicked and wild.

"JOHN GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF THAT NOOSE RIGHT NOW. JOHN!? JOHN!"

John blank dumbly. His fingers slowly reaching to the rope around his throat. Slipping it off so very slowly.

_**BANG. BANG CRASH.**_

Sherlock finally punched through the window, toppling into the room and hissing as he landed painfully with his hands out in front of him, catching his fall but shoving shards of glass into his palms. He ignored it, ran to John and pulled out a knife. For a brief moment, John thought he was going to stab him, but the knife slipped under the rope and pulled, slicing through it and leaving it a useless piece of rope that looked like the tongue of a snake.

John wasn't moving. He didn't think he was breathing. Was he breathing? Was he dead?

Sherlock gripped John around the waist and carried him over his shoulder away from the failed noose and chair. He placed him on the couch with little grace, and when John looked at his waist, blood was smeared all over it.

Sherlock gripped his jaw with his fingers, moving it from side to side. Saying things but John couldn't really hear them. Sherlock. Sherlock was talking to him. Touching him. Bleeding in front of him.

Bleeding?

"John can you hear me? John?!" Sherlock shook him slightly, slapping his cheek lightly and wincing before doing it again.

John's eyes fluttered slightly.

"Your…your hands…"

"Forget about my fucking hands John! John? John!"

"You're alive…" John said, his thoughts starting to feel less fuzzy.

"Yes. Yes John. I'm alive."

"This can't be real…" He said, shaking his head and looking at Sherlock's face properly. He looked thinner. Tears were streaming down the man's face, curving at his cheekbones and landing above his lips. He looked awful.

"Real, John. I'm real. See?" He held his hand in front of John's face, lifting John's palm under it. Warm blood dripped slowly onto the palm. "See? Imaginary things don't bleed."

"I..." John's brain finally started working. Sherlock. Sherlock was here. He started sobbing abruptly, clutching at the man's shirt and pulling him against him. Sucking in breaths of air near his neck, clinging to his form and shaking, repeating _"Oh god…you're here. Oh god, oh god sherlock."_

Sherlock was crying too, he held John back, just holding the man tightly, even though his hands burned.

"John…John I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. Please." Sherlock muttered desperately into his friend's hair, gasping the words out through bitter sobs.

"Forgive me Sherlock. I'm…I'm…I'm so sorry."

"John…"

"Sherlock…"

Their throats burned, their eyes felt fuzzy. Their tongues felt fat and useless in their mouths. And all they could think was _Thank god he's ok._

**So this is the first chapter. Like it? Tell me. It will make me decide whether or not to write another chapter. -theivydaggers**


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